Sunday, Bloody Sunday
by St-Jimmy1669
Summary: House in his teens. Everyone has something from their pasts they'd rather forget. Everyone thinks House got over it all... but why the fishbowl office? discontinued
1. Chapter 1

He had nothing to lose. They would find him soon. They always did. Yet still, every time – every fucking _time_ – he clung to the hope that they'd be a moment too late.

Because that was all it would take: a second of pain, a few moments of sweet relief, and then… freedom. It wasn't as if he'd never been able to rehearse: the faded pearlescent scars were testimony to this. And every time, he told himself that the previous failed occasions were dress rehearsals for the real thing.

Enough thinking: it would delay things. He'd had more than enough time to think, the last time… they'd insisted on counselling at the hospital for a while afterwards. Like he was going to tell them anything. So they'd agreed a compromise: they'd carry on forcing Greg to sit in the same room as that agonisingly sympathetic guy for a couple of hours a week, and Greg could pretend to be thinking about what had happened. Except, of course, he wasn't pretending: not after the first few weeks.

All of that thinking had only strengthened his resolve, though, and - _DAMN_ – he was thinking again. What had he fucking said about thinking?

The sudden burst of anger provided the momentum he needed to press the clean, soft sigh of metal against his raw skin. He closed his eyes, and was pleased to find he could still imagine the crimson blood reluctantly blooming in endlessly intricate patterns against the rough weave of his jeans. He fought the urge to open his eyes; it would dispel the illusion. The reality was that blood seeped out of the deepening cuts almost entirely unpoetically. He hated it – always had – but he'd long ago realised that you can live with dignity – you can't die with it too.

That explained the conspicuous absence of any form of note. Sure, he'd drafted hundreds of suicide notes when he was about twelve. But fifteen is practically adult. And it's only the really stupid kids who feel the need to explain themselves; lift their consciences, so that they can take their own self-pitying, self-obsessed lives guilt-free.

That was what Nathan had done. Three years ago now, but still…. And he'd…they'd both been thirteen. And Greg had watched it all happening from the sidelines.

Nothing had been the same. The father had killed himself – three months ago now. The mother was coping, as far as he knew. But then, what did he know? As far as he'd been concerned, before he'd died, Nathan had just been another guy to Greg, albeit a guy with the hollow, haunted eyes that Greg recognised all too well. A guy – no, a boy – nonetheless. They'd exchanged maybe a dozen words. There was no friendship between them. Things categorically did NOT have to change.

Greg smiled to himself. 14th February. Three years to the day. Just so that nobody thought he'd just flipped out, he'd saved himself for today. Sixth time lucky? Maybe the Gods would see fit to conjure themselves into existence and let him see it through to the end this time.

He was, disappointingly, acutely aware of his surroundings. He gave up and opened his eyes. It was as he'd expected: blood was dripping morosely onto the threadbare carpet, and had made a mess of the desk. God, he couldn't even be original. Tried this method twice before, to no avail (but he could always hope).

There was a surprising amount there… it surely wasn't right that he should still be able to discern his surroundings with such clarity? But there it all was, exactly as he knew it should be. The blue-grey desks were scattered around the room in a 'non-intimidating' manner, along with the hotchpotch of chairs. It suddenly struck him that there would be a strange occult symbol staring back at him from the room's eccentric layout if he could float up to the ceiling and gaze down, and he chuckled to himself.

He briefly considered tidying Mr Daley's desk, but dismissed it – he'd get blood everywhere, and it would just wear him out. This was _his _time now: he was going to spend it how he wanted.

So he stayed put, reclining in his chair and gazing blankly at the ceiling. Not long now, he felt sure, and he relaxed in anticipation of his escape. There was no noise except for the rasping of his own laboured breathing, and the familiar rushing, swirling noises that occupied his head. This lesson didn't end for nearly half an hour; he had ages.

He closed his eyes. He'd never been very good at falling asleep with his eyes open, no matter how tired he was – and he was suddenly exhausted. He bit back the word 'drained' because he didn't have the energy to laugh. So he waited patiently.

The next thing he knew, there were things that should not have been happening. There were heavy footfalls in the corridor outside, and that unmistakeable clearing of the throat. The door clicked open, and the light duly flickered on. Greg could only distinguish fuzzy shapes blocking the intense glare of the strip lighting, but he knew it was over at last.

"Shit. _Shit_." He'd been found. That voice, musical even now…

He was hauled roughly into a sitting position, his cheeks slapped with that unwieldy force that only accompanies blind panic.

"Greg, open your eyes. Look at me. Look-"

It took almost all of his effort for Greg to wrench his eyes open, but he could see Mr Daley more clearly now. Though he seemed to be refusing to stay in focus. He gripped both of Greg's wrists tightly: crushingly. Te agony was immense – the tang of warm skin against his already-smarting flesh was almost unbearable.

He let go as quickly as he'd grasped on, and checked the bleeding.

"Greg, do not do _anything_. I'm calling an ambulance now. I'm just on the other side of the room." He backed away, grabbed the phone from its hook on the wall, and dialled. It took an age to get through; when he did, he spoke quietly and urgently. Then he came back, and resumed that unyielding grasp of Greg's wrists, every year; every thought whispering on is face in sharp relief.

And the images began to pitch and toss, rocking and swaying and tumbling into one another. The long-awaited blackness descended. He no longer cared – about anything. He waited, simply, for the end.

Mr Daley was too late. He had to be. The only things left in Greg's universe were the warm firm grasp and the plunge into an unprecedented calm.


	2. Chapter 2

Mr Daley was British. He was a novelty round here, and every one of the girls had pronounced their undying love for him because of this. The guys saw him as a rival: when the girls only had eyes for him, it was them who lost out. And being gay was simply not an option.

It was only his accent that distinguished him from his run-down colleagues. Arriving in early December, in the middle of the semester had caused a ripple of detached interest, but that was mainly down to the hasty exit of the previous English teacher due to 'allegations'. They'd left the kids free to elaborate on this morsel of information to their hearts' content.

But everyone knew he was nothing special.

Greg faded into obscurity in English classes, normally. It was by no means his strongest subject – though others would beg to differ – but he hated having to work. He hated having to risk humiliation every time he was sent to that pit of despair at the front of the class and forced to read out 'yet another piece of exemplary work'. He hated the looks people gave him in the corridors, though they patted him on the back. It was never his comedic façade they were really laughing at. English lessons were simply where the chances best manifested themselves.

So he regarded this new Englishman with a casual hatred. No reason why he should be any different from the others, who loved to make him the centre of attention.

He was not picked on – indeed, he wasn't spoken to – once, in the month that followed.

One lesson in early January, Greg was woken from the reverie he wore like a suit of armour, by that softly spoken, accented English.

"Greg, can I see you after the lesson?" Mr Daley was at his shoulder. He was nearly looking at him, but not quite. Greg couldn't decide whether or not this was safe. But he had little choice. Teachers rule all. He nodded disconsolately, and forced himself back through the layers of oblivion until he found his own universe again.

And he stayed behind at the end of the lesson. Mr Daley didn't beat about the bush.

"I've seen your previous grades and marked your work this month. You've not once dropped a single mark." Greg shifted his weight slowly from foot to foot, wondering if he was expected to respond. He couldn't handle compliments. But then… this didn't seem to be phrased as such.

Before he'd had time to think, Mr Daley had moved on.

"…Now, I'm not saying that you've got to agree, or even give me an answer now, but I wonder if you'd be interested in extra tuition. I mean, not after school, obviously, but perhaps once a week, during one of my free periods…?"

He was rambling, he knew, and he made a conscious effort to stop himself. Greg looked as if he was considering. He replied, slowly.

"If… if you didn't mind, I'd be happy to do that."

"Are you sure? I can give you time to think abut it, if you'd rather – " Greg shook his head resolutely.

"No, as long as you're happy with that, I'd like to."

"Well, brilliant. We can't start for a week or so, obviously, 'cause I have to run the final arrangements by the Principal – child protection and all that." He grinned wryly.

Greg knew it was going to be all right.

The extra tuition didn't actually consist of a huge amount of tuition, it seemed. Still, it was a lesson a week that he didn't have to spend with the stampede of his fellow 9th-graders.

They had wanted to put him ahead a year, in 7th grade, but his late birthday would have made him two years younger than the rest of the group. So he was stuck with these wonderful specimens of roughly the same age as him. Though, as far as he was concerned, the similarities ended there.

The extra tuition appeared to consist mainly of idle conversation, over marking and homework. They did 'real' work infrequently, but Mr Daley assured him it was because the syllabus wouldn't allow them to cover too much in a year, so it was pointless steaming ahead.

Greg, during the moments of paranoia he nursed, imagined that the whole ploy of 'extra tuition' was an elaborate ruse to get him to connect with a human being for a change; one with whom he perhaps shared a mutual interest, but this was just one of the thoughts he kept locked in the back of his head. He'd need new filing cabinets for back there, at this rate: it filled up fast.

Mr Daley was incredibly formulaic. He assigned each day of the week a tie. He never wore the green paisley thing on anything other than a Thursday. He wore certain suits on certain days; certain weeks. Never two grey suits in succession, for instance. He had two grey suits, a beige one, a brown-grey one and a black pinstripe one (for important meetings). Certain shirts, too. Generally, his entire outfit was painstakingly matched together, perhaps labelled – outfit one, outfit two, etc. Or so Greg liked to imagine.

Still, Mr Daley was that sort of man: incredibly organised. His desk was always impeccably tidy. The desks littered throughout the room were as ordered as he could possibly make them under the stringent rules that governed their positioning – social integration and whatnot.

In short, he was a man who liked order. A man after Greg's own heart.


	3. Chapter 3

Greg realised where he was all too quickly when he awoke. The last place he wanted to be. That cool, clinical light and the sickening stench of latex… he needed to know nothing else.

His eyes adjusted after an eternity to the harsh neon glare of the lighting, and he took stock of his surroundings. A private room, as he'd expected, though he could see right along the corridor, into all the others locked in their fishbowl prisons.

Not that he would have thought that there was anyone around if he hadn't _known_. The place felt deserted. He hadn't expected there to be anyone here when – _if_ – he awoke, but it was still an effort to swallow the disappointment at the silent room around him.

He didn't feel too bad, to be honest. He experimented with moving his limbs, carefully averting his gaze from the ragged stitches in his forearms. No. Who was he kidding? There was no one to see him here. He could get away with it. So he wrenched his to the surprisingly delicate wounds, and allowed those familiar feelings to wash over him, like the forgiving ocean.

He heard footsteps, and pushed all thoughts of why he was here to the back of his mind, to simmer away to themselves. Though they were just waiting.

A young, starched nurse came tentatively into the room, watching him apprehensively.

"Ah, you're awake." Greg made a great show of examining himself.

"Why, yes I am. Thanks for pointing it out." She sat in the stiff chair in the far corner of the room, by the window.

"Well, I'm sure you have some idea of the proceedings over the nest few days." He nodded sullenly, but didn't see fit to comment. This nurse knew what he'd say. She'd attended him the last three times – or was it four? No, it was almost definitely three. He remembered the decrepit woman who'd been there the times before that.

Anyway, there was no point to anything that was going to happen. They'd insisted the first couple of times that it would help him in the long term. By the third time, they were transparently running out of patience, and now any counselling was merely a formality. Greg personally didn't see why they didn't just leave him alone to get on with it. He was sapping already-overstretched resources that were obviously of no good to him, so why they had to insist on it still was a mystery. He'd cope perfectly well on his own, somehow… and if he didn't… well, so be it. That was nobody's problem but his own.

So he tuned back into what the woman was saying. Not that he needed to. It was the same predictable patter, time after time.

She stopped talking eventually, and just looked at him. He felt a sudden urge to make a pass at her, just to see what would happen He could blame it on the meds later.

But no. He really could not be bothered. Ho rolled conspicuously onto his side and squeezed his eyes shut. She took the hint, he assumed. The door swished open and closed. Silence. Again.


	4. Chapter 4

This was to be one of _those _lessons. A serious lesson. Greg could tell as soon as he walked in the door. Mr Daley was sitting at his desk, his fingers steepled under his chin. He waited quietly, tilting his head back slightly to regard Greg with that imperious gaze – the one where he could never tell whether or not it was a joke. He only spoke once Greg had sat down.

"Today. Stories. Fiction. Creativity."

"That a British concept?"

"Yep. Though I may be thinking outside the box just a little." He never balked at comments about his nationality, "And your education will be so much the better for it." He let slip that wry grin that finally allowed Greg to release his breath: none of it was that serious. Mr Daley was talking again.

"Now, I'm going to give you a section B WJEC paper – that's the Welsh Board." He passed Greg the slim booklet, "It's O-level: the exam British kids have to take at sixteen. I doubt you'll have had to tackle something like this before – it's question two: you've got a range of titles, and you get to pick on to write about. It's self-explanatory – I won't give you any help this time – I want to se how you do on your own. Alright?"

Greg scanned through the titles, and felt his pulse begin to race. He nodded, mutely, and dug out his pen. Mr Daley, oblivious, leaned back in his chair and glanced at the clock.

"Happy Valentine's Day, by the way. " Greg smiled tautly in reply. He knew what Valentine's Day meant.

"OK. Let's see how you do with… half an hour, to begin with. Go."

It barely took Greg a second to pull his thoughts together, and he began to write feverishly. It was 'creative' – story writing. That's what Mr Daley had said. Fiction. But then, he must have known. He must've given Greg the titles on purpose. He scanned through them again, to make sure he hadn't misread. Nope. It was all there. "Write 350 words on the title 'Valentine's Day'.

He sensed rather than saw Mr Daley look up at the interruption to the hasty scratching of his fountain pen, but he'd already resumed writing.

Valentine's Day 

He never expected, when he opened the door, that he would be confronted with that. Showers of roses and a harem of female admirers would have been less of a shock. And infinitely more welcome.

_He couldn't see anything at first: just the cubicle door hanging open, and the dark mass, half-visible, beyond. The lights were all turned off. Looking back, he supposed that he'd been to young, really, to fully comprehend; to piece together what he was seeing, until the answer was staring him baldy in the face._

_And when the lights had flickered deadly to life and he'd tentatively tried to open the door, being met with that resistance – squeezing his head through the gap, glancing up… it was an automated process, telling him to cut the tie loose, get the boy into the recovery position, check his airways, attempt desperately to resuscitate him, though he knew there was no hope. Because that was what he'd been told to do. That certificate, modestly displayed between his old Pink Floyd posters said so._

_That was why he carried on trying to revive that flaccid figure, lying prone on the chipped grey tiles. And carried on until he was dragged away by the nurse, and steered with a heavy hand out into the corridor, suddenly thronged with solemn, taut faces._

_He didn't get it. How did they know? Who'd raised the alarm?_

_He imagined the hand was still steady on his shoulder, guiding him out into the cool, fresh outdoors, but when he glanced back to catch a glimpse of its owner, he saw only worried-looking people grouped around the entrance to the cloakroom. It was his feet, numbly propelling him to the freedom the cold concrete quadrangle afforded._

_He sat outside, and rested his head in his hand, and it was only then that he realised the tears were streaming down his face, and his shoulders were shaking violently with great, juddering sobs – of what, he had no idea. _

_When the body had been taken, amid much speculation from the rest of the school, he was shepherded into the Principal's office, a limp biscuit and milky sickly coffee pressed into his hands. There, he was forced to endure Sir rambling unfeelingly about 'regrettable incidents' and 'initiative' and 'tragedy'. Then he was free to face the questioning of a rapt class._

_He said nothing, ignoring those eager faces, on the cusp of adulthood, but remarkably juvenile all of a sudden in their lust for blood. He left it to the teachers to tell them that it had been one of their own trundled away with the crisp white sheet shielding them from everything that he himself had tried frantically to save. And then he listened to them consoling one another._

_It had never really hit him as he felt it ought to have done; as it appeared to have hit the others. He felt coolly detached from all. And he was glad. God, he was so glad that he didn't have to bear the sickening grief that consumed the others. That ridiculous note…_

_He'd gone back, when the buzz had died down. In the rush, no one had looked at the rest of the room. He'd retrieved the note from where it had presumably fluttered under the adjoining cubicle. Of course he'd read it, though he'd later passed it on to the boy's parents._

_That had stung: the note made it just that tiny bit more real. And he had remembered as the read it the dog-eared notebook secreted under his mattress. There were dozens of drafts in there, all echoing these same sentiments. It was then that he realised how cold they really were. He got home, and tore them up, scattering the myriad pieces of confetti with his fragmented self-important ramblings over the hearth, and disposed of them before his parents returned. From now on, when he tried to…no. He didn't 'try'. He was thwarted. He'd do it on day. And he didn't need a 'loving' note to clear his conscience, either._

Greg barely had time to click the lid back onto his pen before Mr Daley looked up.

"You're finished? Great." Reluctantly, he handed over the sheaf of paper containing his large barely-intelligible scrawl. Minutes of silence passed, whilst Mr Daley pored over those aching words. Finally, he looked up, and cleared his throat, stalling for time. Greg pretended to be absorbed in his fingernails.

"Gone over the word limit a bit," he remarked, as much to fill the silence as anything. Greg nodded grimly to himself.

"Greg?" Mr Daley didn't continue until Greg looked up at him, "have you... have you ever talked about what happened last year?"

"Yeah. " He replied, guardedly.

"Care to elaborate?"

"At the end of last year, when I first tried to kill myself. Then the two times after that." Greg surprised himself with how blunt it sounded. Of course, he'd done it on purpose: people stopped asking questions if he was this direct with them, but even so… he wasn't usually so obtuse. Mr Daley didn't appear phased.

"Oh, yeah. I forgot about that. But… from what you've written, it sound like you-"

"Don't give me any of that 'unresolved issues' crap. It's fiction, OK?" He was standing up now, breathing heavily. Mr Daley got to his feet more slowly. He seemed unusually subdued, and Greg deflated.

"Sorry, sir, I-"

"-It's 'Mr Daley'. And don't worry about it."

"No, I mean it. It's just…" He struggled to go on. Mr Daley gestured to him to sit down, and continue. He came closer, to perch on the desk next to Greg.

"OK. It's… I've been to that clinical place three times now, and they always go on about Nathan. Every time, like they want a reason to pin on my… suicide attempts."(It was Greg who blanched at the words then; Mr Daley remained still, listening attentively.) "Why do they want a reason? Don't they understand that some things don't _have _reasons?" Mr Daley smiled.

"That's the thing about getting older. Especially if you go into the police, medicine, things like that. You start to believe that everything has a reason." He gave Greg a sidelong glance, "Even you believe that, deep down." Greg made to protest, but stopped himself. It seemed inconceivable that he should b right, but….

"It's nearly the end of the lesson." Mr Daley nodded towards the clock, "you'd better start making your way in a minute."

Greg took this as his cue to begin packing his bag. Mr Daley was standing next to him, and murmured barely audibly, "Greg, I'm always here."

He nodded abruptly, and made a bolt for the door as soon as the bell went. Then he went down to the bathroom. He needed a moment to compose himself, before rejoining the rest of his class.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N sorry it's been so long since the last update. Year 11 cometh around, and I'm up to my eyeballs in coursework…

Greg's favourite time. Still forced to bear the humiliation of having to wear a hospital gown, he was escorted down that eerily silent corridor. If he glanced into the rooms on either side, he could see the occupants watching him with benign curiosity, or staring dispassionately at the ceiling, or gaping flaccidly at those omnipresent TVs.

That room. At the end of the corridor, turn left and second on the right. He could probably sleepwalk there now. If he felt he needed to give them a reason to worry.

They held the door open, and the short bustling woman (why were there always short bustling women?) Sent him in.

"Your 11 o' clock, Dr Killott," She smiled in what was obviously meant to be interpreted as an encouraging manner at Greg, then scuttled off down the corridor. The desolate clicking of her heels reverberated around his head for what seemed like a week afterwards.

He felt unusually timid as he pushed the door closed behind him and waited to be addressed. After an age, Dr Killott turned way from his stack of papers, having evidently extracted the file he wanted, and seemed to notice Greg for the first time.

"Ah." He gestured widely to the cold-looking chair in the far corner, "Would you take a seat?" Greg took this as an invitation to sit down. Killott himself retained his swivel chair, and rolled over to sit uncomfortably close. Greg made his displeasure at the situation evident, refusing to look at Dr Killott, but letting his gaze wander around the room. Not that there was much of it, of course. The walls were a regulation beige, and the only furniture was a grey desk loaded with the papers Killott had been perusing previously, the swivel chair and two hard plastic chairs, one of which Greg was occupying now. He sighed, and relaxed into the back of it. He knew there were going to be questions. There always were, to begin with.

Dr Killott, sensing that he was perhaps being a little intense, kicked his chair back a few paces and leaned back, his fingers interlaced behind his head. He swung listlessly, and cleared his throat, as if in preparation for a long and boring lecture that he didn't want to give.

"Now, Greg, I believe our paths have crossed before." Greg nodded warily, staring intently at the garish Art Deco print above the desk behind Dr Killott. His eye snagged on it. It wasn't quite straight; he was dying to get up and set it right…

"Greg, are you listening?" Greg made the requisite eye contact, broken as soon as was physically possible.

"I was just saying, how many times have we met before?"

"Thirty or so."

"No, I mean…" He shook his head, struggling to rephrase it, " I mean, how many times have we been in this situation – the first meeting after –"

"I see. This is the sixth."

"Yes." (God, that moron. If he knew the answer, why bother asking?) "So… there's evidently a problem. Would you agree?" (Well, yeah. People kept thwarting his attempts. And Killott was obviously a pretty crap psychologist, if it kept happening.) He shrugged non-committally. If he said something. Killott would only want to psychoanalyse him. That was how these shrink types got their kicks. And, if refusing to speak irritated him, then so much the better.

They'd been in this territory before: Killott growing ever more infuriated as Greg refused to co-operate. Dr Killott knew the score: the boy didn't want help, so why bother? He had to be there to keep an eye on him, should he by some miracle decide to talk, but other than that…

Anyway, this was his sixth suicide attempt. If the boy was that determined to die, why didn't they just let him? (He strongly suspected that Greg felt the same way about this. Oh, well, at least they had something in common.)

He decided to try a new tack. The drawing of the last two occasions had been a bit of a fiasco. Writing, on the other hand… Greg was a self-confessed hypergraphic. It was worth a try. And it was a fair bet that he already kept some kind of a diary.

"Greg?" He looked up, startled. He'd previously been glaring at his knees, " Have you ever kept a diary?"

"Why?" This was an unusual question; one that it hadn't occurred to him to consider a response to before.

"I'm just interested."

"Sometimes. It depends."

"Do you keep them?"

"They're at home."

"Would you consider letting me see them?"

"That would depend."

"On what?"

"Whether you'd be interested in the content, whether I'm happy to let you read bits. Whether I could trust you."

"I see. As for the first thing, I'd be happy to see anything you've written. I can't speak for the second, and the third… I've seen you through six suicide attempts. I would hope you'd see the sense in trusting me."

Greg appeared to be considering. Dr Killott was astounded: this was probably the longest exchange they'd ever had. It could all go wrong, though.

Finally, Greg spoke, slowly.

"I would consider letting you see them, yes."

"Excellent. Dr Killott sat back in his seat, trying not to evidence his relief too strongly. "Now, I know the previous arrangements have been that you see me as an inpatient for a couple of weeks, then a few more weeks as an outpatient… but I think, with your parents' consent-"

"-you don't need to bother with my parents." Greg replied quickly. Dr Killott shook his head.

"I have to by law. Anyway, what I'd like to do is extend your term as an inpatient, so I can see you more frequently. That sound alright?" Greg nodded, shrugging.

"Like I have a choice." Killott decided to let that one go. Greg was already looking fed up (but then, nothing changed) and had resorted, apparently, to counting the tiny mosaic-sized tiles on the ceiling.

"Greg, if you want to leave, feel free. I think there's someone coming to see you in a minute, anyway."

"Who? Not-"

"Not your parents; a teacher. Mr... Daley?"

"Oh." Without another word, he got up and left, leaning across to straighten the picture as he went. Dr Killott smiled to himself. The boy had exercised excellent self-restraint that session. On his worst days, he'd been on the floor, moving all the furniture to align with the narrow grooves in the carpet. Or he'd been sitting in the corner, rocking gently and ignoring any attempts by Dr Killott to engage with him. Though this had happened only a handful of times.

Yes, he might not want to believe it, but Greg was definitely improving.

Back, shut in his invisible jail, Greg lay on his front, his face buried in the pillow. The guy in the room opposite had the TV blaring, but Greg wasn't interested in having his own on. The vague hubbub of conversation pervading his consciousness was oddly comforting. The room was stifling: cloying and humid (he wasn't allowed the windows unlocked, since they were on the fourth floor).

Mr Daley still hadn't turned up, and it had been an hour and a half. Either Killott had been lying, or Mr Daley had forgotten. Though he didn't blame him. If he could, he'd walk out of this room right now; walk out of this fucking building and leave his broken body behind forever.

He moved his head slightly to the left to take a deep breath, and then pushed as hard as he could into the pillow. The pressure: the choking blackness was strangely liberating. For a moment, he wondered if he could get away with not coming up for another breath.

That would really screw with Killott.


End file.
